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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29072166">it is not in the stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse'>tarinumenesse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Death, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Loss of Parent(s), Parent-Child Relationship, Past Mercedes von Martritz/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Past Relationship(s), Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rebuilding Fodlan, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:41:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29072166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the war, in the wake of a tragedy, Ingrid and Sylvain went their separate ways: Sylvain to become Margrave Gautier and negotiate peace with the people of Sreng, and Ingrid to serve King Dimitri as one of his knights. But when Dimitri dispatches Ingrid and her fellow knight Raphael to form part of the party travelling with Sylvain into Sreng as he finalises peace with its people, they are forced into each other’s company once more. Under the eyes of the archons of Sreng, the boisterous Raphael, and Sylvain’s headstrong daughter Olivia, they seek to mend what has been broken by years apart and things left unspoken.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sylvgrid Big Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it is not in the stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my contribution to the Sylvgrid Big Bang. I had the immense pleasure of working with the amazing <a href="https://twitter.com/rinoarubia">Rinoa</a>, whose artwork has absolutely blown me away. Please have a look at her brilliant work!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The chapel bell rang to signal the coming of noon. Most of the people in the town square took no notice of it. Outside Fhirdiad, time was measured by the height of the sun rather than the strike of the hour. The lad standing in front of Ingrid, however, started. He jumped out of the line of people waiting for pies and knocked into a passing woman.</p><p>“Sorry ma’am!” he yelled as he bolted towards the fountain at the centre of the square. Judging from the charcoal on his face and the state of his clothes, he was a blacksmith’s apprentice. He probably had no more than a quart hour break, nothing near what was required for luncheon in the busyness and tomfoolery of market day. Ingrid shook her head in sympathy as she watched him run past the place where Raphael stood with a crowd of small admirers, none above ten years of age.</p><p>“So you think I can only lift one of you at a time?” Raphael boomed, his voice challenging the bell for volume. The gaggle of children cheered.</p><p>“What’ll it be, then?”</p><p>Ingrid spun back to the line to discover she was at its head. The pie vendor, a slim woman with her hair hidden beneath a brown scarf, was waiting. She tapped her fingers on the counter as the other people waiting began to grumble.</p><p>“Sorry,” Ingrid said, rushing forward. “Three meat pies, please.”</p><p>She placed the same number of gold on the counter, which the vendor swept into a purse before handing over the pies, each one in its own paper wrapper. Ingrid took them with whispered thanks and nodded apologies at the people in line before turning towards Raphael. His arms were raised into the air, a child dangling from each one.</p><p>“Raphael!” she called.</p><p>He sought her out with a grin and waved both hands. Ingrid smirked. Raphael had become the knight he had always wished to be, but he had never lost his enthusiasm or excitable nature. Both characteristics she had come to value highly during long moons on the road.</p><p>As Ingrid drew closer to him and his admirers, Raphael squatted down. The two boys holding onto his biceps whined when their feet touched the ground.</p><p>“You said you can carry us for longer than we can hold on,” the one on the right complained.</p><p>“Sorry, kids, I’ve gotta eat,” Raphael said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “A knight’s gotta keep up his strength.”</p><p>The boy pushed Raphael’s hand away and glared at Ingrid.</p><p>“Is this your lady friend?” he asked.</p><p>The last two words were laden with an inordinate amount of spite. Ingrid frowned, wondering where he had learned to be so rude. But before she could scold him for it, Raphael laughed.</p><p>“No, she’s not,” he said. “This here lady’s vowed to never marry.”</p><p>“Raphael!” Ingrid protested.</p><p>He laughed again. “This is Lady Ingrid,” he said, “the greatest knight to ever serve House Blaiddyd.”</p><p>At the mention of the king’s name, the boy straightened. He looked Ingrid over again, with begrudged admiration.</p><p>“I s’pose you look like a knight,” he conceded. “You’re fine then.”</p><p>With that, he scrambled after some of the other children, already scattered to the far corners of the square.</p><p>“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Ingrid said as she passed Raphael two of the pies.</p><p>“But it’s true,” he replied. He led Ingrid over to the fountain and took a seat on its lip. “Who convinced those bandits to leave Lowen Village without drawing a sword?”</p><p>Ingrid shook her head as she lowered herself beside him. She could just as easily argue that Raphael had done all the work in Lowen. After all, he was the one who’d convinced the people to trust them with the job in the first place.</p><p>Raphael inhaled his pies, careless of the crumbs that fell and stuck to his tunic. Ingrid was more careful, nibbling at her lunch so that none of the flaky butter pastry went to waste. Gautier couldn’t boast of many things, but its pastry was unmatched.</p><p>“Why’re we having lunch in town anyway?” Raphael asked between mouthfuls. “Sylvain’s probably waiting for us with a spread. That’s how Margraves greet their guests, isn’t it?”</p><p>“We’re not guests,” Ingrid replied. “We’re here on the king’s business.”</p><p>“You keep saying that, but this is Sylvain we’re talking about. He’s your friend, isn’t he?”</p><p>“Of course he is,” Ingrid said quickly, picking at the lid of her pie. Raphael nodded as he devoured the last few bites of his. He was already glancing about the other food stands, seemingly more interested in the next course than her answer.</p><p>“Well then, I suppose we can expect a second lunch!” he chuckled, confirming her suspicion. “But that’s not gonna stop me sampling those roast potatoes. Do you want some?”</p><p>Ingrid shook her head. “Not today.”</p><p>“Alright then! Save my seat!”</p><p>Raphael stood, strode over to join the potato line and immediately struck up a conversation with the woman in front of him. The woman was hesitant to answer, turning slightly towards him as she spoke, but not committing—until Raphael laughed from deep within his chest. Then she blushed and lingered in her place as the rest of the line moved, so he could step up beside her. As always, his charm  and honesty was impossible to resist.</p><p>Ingrid prodded at her pie as she looked away from them and across the square. No one looked back. No one paid any attention to her, a strange woman in the king’s colours sitting alone on the edge of the fountain. It was as though she didn’t exist. As though she would never fit in anywhere. Not with the court, not with the king’s knights. Not with commoners or Raphael.</p><p>Not even with her friends.</p><p>The distance between herself and Dimitri she could accept. He had always been Ingrid’s sovereign as well as her friend, and as such, he was entitled to her loyalty and dedication without the promise of anything in return. The friendship he did offer was an honour. Besides, he was devoted to Byleth and their children, leaving little time for anything else outside his work. It was natural they rarely spent time together.</p><p>As for Felix, Ingrid knew that she could count on him for anything. But their differences had never been satisfactorily resolved, even with Felix matured into his role as duke and Ingrid hers as a knight of the realm. Their relationship was close and sometimes affectionate, but always based more on antagonism than honest understanding.</p><p>But Ingrid had never expected to feel at odds with Sylvain.</p><p>She had been honest with Raphael: she and Sylvain were still friends. On occasions when they were both in Fhirdiad, they spent idle hours exchanging tales of their lives, sharing a drink, joking and scolding each other. But that was all. Outside the capital, Sylvain was focussed on creating peace with Sreng. Ingrid was busy with a blur of missions and travel and nights seated in the open air beside a fire. It was hard to keep in contact when they were both moving about; difficult to hold together a friendship in the face of life’s demands.</p><p>Not to mention mistakes.</p><p>Ingrid sighed and broke off another small piece of pastry.</p><p>“That’s a heavy sigh.”</p><p>The pie fell from her hands as she jumped to her feet and spun towards the voice.</p><p>“Who–”</p><p>Sylvain stood a few feet away, arms folded across his chest. He looked different, mostly due to his neatly trimmed beard. It was the same startling, rusty colour as the hair atop his head—except that <em>that </em>was peppered with grey. Sylvain, grey. There were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes too, sun damage on his forehead. The first visual signs of their age, already felt in aches and pains leftover from the war.</p><p>Then, his clothes were far too understated: an ankle-length, maroon coat with a fur collar over a loose cream shirt and plain trousers. So casual compared to how he had dressed when they were younger, and to how he dressed at court. Nothing like a margrave, and nothing like Sylvain, except that the quality of the fabrics and the craftsmanship were evident against the rough workwear of the townsfolk surrounding them.</p><p>Ingrid stared, unable to form words as Sylvain regarded her with an amused smile. She felt ashamed of her musings a moment earlier, ashamed that she wasn’t properly prepared to see him. Silence stretched long between them, until he finally took pity on her.</p><p>“Hey there,” he said.</p><p>The words were the same. They were the ones Ingrid had heard every day at the academy and during the war, when their lives were different, when they were different. For all the things that had changed, for all the time they had spent apparent or being merely civil, the words were the same.</p><p>As was his smile, Ingrid realised. It was the gentle, goofy expression Sylvain reserved for his closest friends.</p><p>Sylvain grunted as Ingrid collided with him, but he caught her all the same. She tightened her arms around his waist. He laughed as he wrapped his around her shoulders.</p><p>“Whoa, happy to see me?” he said.</p><p>“Of course, you fool,” Ingrid mumbled.</p><p>He gave her a squeeze. “I’m glad to see you too. But the townspeople will think I’ve returned to my old ways if you don’t let go.”</p><p>Ingrid tripped backwards out of the embrace, flushing under the curious stares of passers-by. Everyone in town would recognise Sylvain, whether they knew him personally or not. Witnessing him greeting a strange woman in such a way would naturally invoke their curiosity. She didn’t need the people of Gautier gossiping about her.</p><p>“I didn’t expect you until this evening,” Sylvain said, still smiling. He didn’t spare a glance for the people surrounding them, even though he was the one who expressed concern. “I heard you took the southern road.”</p><p>Ingrid wrapped her coat around her body, even though it was summer and not cold. Not cold for Gautier, anyway.</p><p>“We made good time,” she said. “The weather was fine.”</p><p>Sylvain raised an eyebrow. Which was fair. They had both endured the etiquette lessons required of all children in Faerghus. No matter the circumstances, one only referenced the weather when there was nothing else to say. Nothing at all. Suddenly, despite having so little to do with Sylvain throughout the preceding six years, she felt completely exposed to him. It was ridiculous, but then…</p><p>“Well, I don’t have lunch for you up at the castle,” Sylvain said, shattering the moment and interrupting Ingrid’s thoughts. “So you made a good choice with the pie.”</p><p>Ingrid gasped. She turned back to see her pie destroyed on the ground, its meat and gravy splattered across the grey stone of the fountain, and the pastry—the delicious pastry—covered in dirt.</p><p>“Oh no,” she gasped.</p><p>Sylvain laughed and slung an arm over her shoulders.</p><p>“Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a new one.”</p><p>But before they could take a step, a shout rang out across the square.</p><p>“Sylvain!”</p><p>All the townsfolk looked up now, unable to ignore Raphael’s resonant voice. They continued watching as he, unmistakably one of their own, a commoner, trod right up to their lord and addressed him by his familiar name. Sylvain let go of Ingrid to clasp the other knight’s offered arm.</p><p>“Raphael,” he said. “Well met. You’re looking very…tidy.”</p><p>“I’m Ingrid’s greatest success,” Raphael chuckled, proudly clapping his hand against his own chest.</p><p>“Please don’t,” Ingrid begged as heat rose in her cheeks.</p><p>“No, I think he’s right,” Sylvain said. “Well done, Ingrid. Looks like you’ll need another project now. You morphed me into a married man, Raphael into a knight…you’re just made for bullying men onto the straight and narrow.”</p><p>The comment was laden with teasing, but Ingrid felt it as a blow. It was too close to all the things people said about her behind her back—those things about that spinster lady knight who tolerated no form of frivolity or fun, who destroyed the mood of whatever room she entered. Who had betrayed her father to pursue her own, selfish dreams. Only a small number of people engaged in the talk, but it still hurt.</p><p>But she shouldn’t let it interfere with her reunion with Sylvain. Surely he didn’t know what the court gossips said.</p><p>“Don’t make me regret missing you,” she said, rolling her eyes in an attempt to hide her discomfort.</p><p>Sylvain grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.</p><p>He turned from her to walk with Raphael towards the pie cart, the two of them immediately launching into a lively conversation. Ingrid didn’t try to catch up.</p><p>***</p><p>Castle Gautier was made up of black stone mined from ancient quarries in the east near Fraldarius territory. It stood out against the backdrop of the mountains in winter, when they were white, and summer, when green flooded all but the highest peaks. At night, it became another one of their shadows.</p><p>Ingrid had always found the castle intimidating. It was a sentiment born in childhood, on her first visit when, alongside Glenn, Felix and Dimitri, she had met the fearsome Margrave Gautier. Sylvain’s father had the build of a bear and the strength and ferocity to match. His devotion to his country and his pride in the position he held—as the first line of defence against northern invasion—were unmatched by anyone in Faerghus at that time. It was funny, because if Ingrid had known him in any other context, she probably would have admired him.</p><p>But her experience of the Margrave had always been filtered through Sylvain’s eyes. Even a child, she had noticed the way his entire body tensed when his father was in the room. She had noticed how Glenn stood right beside Sylvain at dinners and other events, sometimes going as far as to surreptitiously hold the other boy’s hand.</p><p>The worst time had been soon before Miklan was disowned. One night, when she was fourteen and Sylvain sixteen, she had almost stumbled upon one of his and his father’s fights. She had hidden around the corner, not brave enough to enter and take Glenn’s empty place at Sylvain’s side, while the Margrave berated his younger son for an incident in the training yard. An incident, they had called it. In the midst of a brawl, Miklan had left Sylvain with a severe bruise on his shoulder and marks around his throat.</p><p>“If you stood up for yourself, trained enough that you were worthy of the power you hold, he couldn’t have laid a finger on you!” the Margrave had bellowed.</p><p>“I’m sorry, father,” Sylvain had replied, his voice a whisper in comparison. “I’ll be better. I’ll fight back.”</p><p>He never had. Sylvain had never been capable of purposefully hurting his brother. Even at Conand Tower, with a clear path to the Black Beast’s heart, Sylvain had hesitated. He cared that much for his family, despite everything they’d done to him.</p><p>But all that was in the past. It had been five years since the former Margrave had renounced his title, citing that the new Faerghus needed the blood of the younger generation (as though it had not been demanded of them their whole lives). Five years since Sylvain had taken on that responsibility, accepting a mantle Ingrid wasn’t brave enough to don. Brandishing a lance under the king’s orders was easy compared to administering a territory.</p><p>“I’m looking forward to meeting Olivia,” Raphael said suddenly as they trekked up the road towards the castle.</p><p>Or raising a child.</p><p>A grin broke out across Sylvain’s face. He clasped his hands behind his back—unlike Ingrid and Raphael, he didn’t have a horse to lead—and glanced at Ingrid as he said, “You should be wary. She’s a troublemaker.”</p><p>Ingrid blinked at him, holding herself back from reacting to his teasing in any other way. She hated that he had looked at her to say that, even though it wasn’t surprising. Unlike Raphael, who rushed headfirst into games and nonsense with every child he came across, Ingrid struggled. It wasn’t that she disliked children; she simply didn’t know what to do with them. What to say.</p><p>“It was a troublemaker or a saint,” Raphael laughed. “Considering her mother, I mean.”</p><p>Ingrid’s chest tightened, her mind already scrambling for something to fix what Raphael had done. But Sylvain didn’t flinch. His grin softened, overtaken with a fondness unlike anything she had ever seen him wear. Something like love, but more sorrowful.</p><p>“It would’ve been easier on me if she was like Mercedes,” he said.</p><p>A hush fell over them. Ingrid didn’t know what the other two were thinking, but her second last visit to Gautier, six years prior, immediately flooded her thoughts—the events and sensations as fresh as those of the previous hour. Olivia, less than half Ingrid’s height at the time, talking in almost complete sentences. Asking where her mummy was, crying when no one could take her to Mercedes. Sylvain, grabbing the child, clinging to her, refusing to give her up even when she was asleep and he was near collapse. It had taken over an hour to convince him that Olivia would be safe in her bed. And after finally letting her go, he had disappeared into his study, locking the door behind him. Ingrid didn’t know how many hours she spent outside that barred door with Sylvain’s mother, helplessly listening while he wept.</p><p>“But it’s divine justice, really, that she’s fonder of piracy than prayers,” Sylvain said, shattering the memory.</p><p>Ingrid lifted an eyebrow, happy to pursue the distraction. “Piracy?” she questioned.</p><p>“Yes. She once held the kitchen at ransom for cake.”</p><p>“I bet she’s as devoted to her studies as you once were,” Raphael interjected.</p><p>“Indeed. She’s memorised all the maps of the continent and the islands. Loves geography. She speaks Srengi better than me and says she’ll learn Morfis next.”</p><p>“You sound very proud,” Ingrid commented.</p><p>“I am,” Sylvain said, nodding. “She’s without doubt the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Without her I—”</p><p>“Papa!”</p><p>All three of them looked towards the castle to see a girl was sprinting across the drawbridge towards them. Ingrid knew her identity immediately—would have known without her shout. There was no mistaking it. Her pale orange hair, contained by a ribbon, bounced against her shoulder as she ran. Her lavender eyes were lit with excitement as she threw herself at Sylvain.</p><p>“Thank you!” Oliva cried, wrapping her arms around her father. “I love them!”</p><p>Sylvain hugged her back with a grin every bit as bright as the one he’d worn before Mercedes was mentioned.</p><p>“I’m glad,” he said, “but I thought I’d hidden them well this time. They were supposed to be for tonight.”</p><p>“Bad luck!” Olivia let go of Sylvain and spun around on the ball of one foot, clad in a soft brown leather boot with red laces. Neither it nor its pair bore a single scuff and were clearly the best quality money could buy. “I’m never taking them off.”</p><p>Sylvain shook his head, then froze. His eyes narrowed.</p><p>“Wait,” he said. “If you found them, you went into…”</p><p>Olivia twisted to face Raphael and Ingrid.</p><p>“Hello,” she said loudly.</p><p>Sylvain clenched his jaw. Olivia ignored him, adjusting her capelet over her shoulders before performing a perfect curtsy.</p><p>“I am Olivia Charlotte Gautier,” she said. “Who are you?”</p><p>At that, Sylvain sighed. He stepped behind Olivia and dropped a hand onto each of her shoulders.</p><p>“Olivia,” he said, “this is Sir Raphael Kirsten and Lady Ingrid Brandl Galatea.”</p><p>Olivia shrugged her father away with a gasp.</p><p>“The knights? From the king?” She finally glanced at Sylvain again. “The ones you told me about?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Olivia bounded forward to stop directly in front of Ingrid. “I know all about you! Papa says you’re the best knight in Fódlan.”</p><p>Ingrid’s fingers tightened around Titania’s reins.</p><p>“Sylvain!” she exclaimed.</p><p>Sylvain threw up his hands. “Am I wrong?”</p><p>“You fight with a lance?” Olivia asked at the same time.</p><p>Ingrid nodded, suppressing a twinge of annoyance at Sylvain’s teasing. At the same time, looking at Olivia, she felt a terrible urge to hide behind her horse.</p><p>Raphael, on the other hand, stepped forward. “Didn’t your dad tell you anything about me?”</p><p>Olivia turned towards him. After a long moment of consideration, she pointed at Raphael’s stallion.</p><p>“Your horse is huge,” she said. “Can I ride him?”</p><p>Sylvain raised a hand, but it was pointless. Raphael wasted no time in hoisting Olivia up into Bull’s saddle.</p><p>“Hold on tight, little miss,” he said, placing her hands on the saddle horn.</p><p>“I’m not little,” Olivia protested. “Besides, I’ve been riding for years. I have my own horse. Cinnamon.”</p><p>“Well, this here is Bull. Since we’re nearly at the castle, you don’t mind me leading him?”</p><p>Olivia shook her head. Raphael set out, Bull’s reins in hand. Olivia waved at Sylvain as they passed him.</p><p>“Keep hold of the saddle!” Sylvain reprimanded.</p><p>Olivia laughed. Sylvain sighed again, shaking his head as he followed the trio’s progress across the drawbridge. Ingrid stepped up beside him, tugging on Titania’s reins so she followed.</p><p>“Raphael’s good with children,” she said. “They’ll be great friends in no time.”</p><p>“I don’t want her to pester him,” Sylvain replied.</p><p>“Isn’t pestering the Gautier speciality?”</p><p>The words escaped Ingrid before she could censor herself. Sylvain’s eyebrows shot up. He regarded her for a moment before crossing his arms.</p><p>“It <em>is</em> really you,” he smirked.</p><p>Ingrid rolled her eyes, sparking a burst of laughter from Sylvain. At that, she turned and marched towards the castle.</p><p>“Since it really is you,” Sylvain cried, chasing after her, “I have a question!”</p><p>As he joined her, Ingrid slowed down. A blossom of warmth unfurled near her heart as their footsteps fell into a steady, matching rhythm. Just like when they paced through the monastery on patrol as generals in Dimitri’s army.</p><p>“What?” she asked, in her most foreboding voice.</p><p>“Will you be okay?” Sylvain sniggered.</p><p>Ingrid frowned and patted Titania’s neck. “What do you mean?” she asked.</p><p>Sylvain gestured in front of them. “With Olivia.”</p><p>The warmth that had been slowly spreading through her extinguished.</p><p>“Of course,” she bit off.</p><p>Sylvain held up his hands defensively. “It’s fine,” he said. “I know you don’t like children.”</p><p>“It’s not—”</p><p>“Not everyone does.”</p><p>“How much do you think you know about me?” Ingrid snapped.</p><p>“I mean, it’s…”</p><p>“It’s been years since we spent any time together.”</p><p>Sylvain’s steps slowed, forming a broken rhythm with Ingrid’s own on the wooden drawbridge. “Anyway,” he said softly, from his place at Titania’s shoulder, “you’ll have plenty of time to get to know Olivia. Hopefully that will help. She’s coming with us.”</p><p>Ingrid halted, then dropped Titania’s reins and marched around the horse to face Sylvain.</p><p>“What?” she demanded.</p><p>Sylvain blew out a breath. “I knew you’d react like this,” he mumbled.</p><p>Ingrid clenched her fists, trying to direct her frustration into that action. “Sylvain, she’s a child!”</p><p>“Exactly. I can’t leave her at home.”</p><p>“What about her tutor? Her nanny?”</p><p>Sylvain shook his head. “She doesn’t have a nanny, and her tutor is visiting her family in Rowe.”</p><p>“Then send her to Fhirdiad! To your parents, or to Dimitri and Byleth. She can spend the time with the prince.”</p><p>“Ingrid.” Sylvain caught her hands and held them, preventing them from flailing through the air. “It’ll be fine. We aren’t entering a war zone.”</p><p>Ingrid’s heart thudded. She pulled her hands out of his.</p><p>“It’s not peace until the papers are signed,” she said.</p><p>Sylvain frowned, then shook his head. He circled around Ingrid to continue to the castle.</p><p>“They’re going to be signed,” he said. “I’ve been working on this for ten years. I know these people. They’re no danger to you, me, Olivia, anyone.”</p><p>“Then how do you explain the incursions into Faerghus?” Ingrid asked as she grabbed Titania’s reins and followed.</p><p>Sylvain snorted. “How do you explain King Lambert invading and stealing their lands?”</p><p>“Sylvain!”</p><p>He stopped and raked a hand through his hair. After a moment, he turned to face her.</p><p>“You know that’s what happened,” he said.</p><p>“Of course I do. Nonetheless…”</p><p>“This isn’t like the missions we went on when we were her age, Ingrid,” Sylvain interrupted. “If that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not Rufus, sending Dimitri to the Western Rebellion.”</p><p>A chill travelled up Ingrid’s spine, cooling her anger. “I wasn’t suggesting that,” she whispered.</p><p>“Then what were you suggesting?”</p><p>Ingrid’s heart raced under Sylvain’s glare. She had made a mistake. No matter what she said, she was in the wrong. Her gut reaction had once again proved her to be exactly the same person she was at seventeen. Untrusting, narrow-minded, quick to judge, whether of the people of Sreng or her supposed friend.</p><p>“I don’t want you to lose anything else,” she said. A pathetic attempt at redeeming herself.</p><p>Sylvain’s eyes narrowed before he forced a laugh.</p><p>“I can’t believe you would think I would put my only child in danger,” he said. “We won’t be among strangers, Ingrid. And I’m not the same, irresponsible fool I was when Olivia was born. I promised Olivia she could come, and she will. I won’t send her away, whether to my parents or Dimitri, like she’s a nuisance. Like she’s unimportant.”</p><p>He turned on his heel.</p><p>“Come on. Raphael will be waiting,” he said, marching through the gate.</p><p>***</p><p>After Sylvain’s steward showed them to their rooms, Ingrid threw her bag onto the bed and ripped it open. She yanked off her riding gloves and threw them onto the floor, to replace them with the simple, fingerless braces she wore when training. Felix was obsessive, but he had one thing right: training was very effective in expelling the worse of one’s feelings. Right now, that was exactly what she needed.</p><p>But as she exited the passageway that led to the castle training grounds, she realised that she didn’t want to go there. The entire journey from Fhirdiad, she and Raphael had been in constant company. Not that she disliked travelling with him; she appreciated having someone with whom to idle away the more tedious hours of knighthood. But now, she needed a moment alone, and the Gautier training grounds were certain to be packed with soldiers. Even though the border had been peaceful for many years, Gautier territory still had the largest standby force in Faerghus. There was a long term plan to move the soldiers into peaceful employment, but it was taking time.</p><p>“Just in case,” Ingrid muttered to herself as she adjusted her path.</p><p>On the west side of the castle, there was a pleasant, grassy area surrounded by flower beds off the colonnade. During her visits as a young woman, Sylvain’s mother had entertained Ingrid there for tea. A kind-hearted gesture for a girl who had never known a mother.</p><p>It was a relief to enter it alone, weapon in hand.</p><p>Ingrid stepped off the stone paving onto the grass. As she did, there was a movement at the corner of her eye. Her grip on her lance tightened as she spun towards it. Olivia froze, hands held mid-air in a pose not unlike the exaggerated creeping of a mummer.</p><p>Ingrid released her breath and lowered her lance.</p><p>“What are you doing?” she demanded.</p><p>Olivia stared at her, lips pursed as though she was prepared to be scolded. After a long moment, she brought her feet together and linked her hands behind her back.</p><p>“What are you doing?” she asked.</p><p>And this, <em>this</em>, was why Ingrid found children difficult.</p><p>“I need to train,” she said, resting the foot of her lance against the ground.</p><p>“Why? You’re already a knight.”</p><p>“Even knights need to train,” Ingrid replied, eying Olivia as the girl took a step forward. “If you don’t practice, you lose what skills you have.”</p><p>“I know that.” Another step. “Papa says that’s why he can’t beat the quartermaster when they spar.”</p><p>Ingrid frowned. At the academy, Sylvain had never bested Felix, Ingrid or Dimitri, but he’d fared well against other members of the Blue Lions. During the war, he had honed his lance-craft to become one of the deadliest generals in the Kingdom army. For some reason, despite the years of peace, hearing that he had neglected his training saddened her. He’d lost part of himself.</p><p>Which felt the same as losing part of <em>herself</em>.</p><p>“Well then,” Ingrid said, with a small cough to clear her throat, “you understand. So I’d best get started.”</p><p>Olivia stumbled forward to stand directly in front of her.</p><p>“Will you teach me?” she blurted.</p><p>“What?” Ingrid replied, startled.</p><p>Olivia glanced around the empty garden before leaning towards Ingrid and saying, “I want to learn how to fight. Please teach me.”</p><p>Everything about her manner revealed that she was asking for something forbidden. Ingrid took a breath, buying time to think. She didn’t want to go against any rules Sylvain had put in place. At the same time, Olivia’s frank admission that she didn’t know how to fight worried her. Even the crown prince, coddled in the lap of luxury and unmitigated harmony, knew basic sword manoeuvres.</p><p>“Hasn’t Syl…your father taught you?” Ingrid asked.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Nothing?”</p><p>“Oh, it’s just that he’s so busy. He wants to teach me, but he doesn’t have time. So I thought maybe you could. Even though I know it’s terrible manners to bother a guest when they’ve just arrived.”</p><p>Ingrid leaned her weight against her lance, studying Olivia’s face in astonishment. The girl was outright lying. If there was one thing Ingrid could spot at the distance of a mile, it was a Gautier lie. And Olivia’s smile twisted in exactly the same way that Sylvain’s did when he told a fib.</p><p>“You’ve never held a lance?” she asked flatly.</p><p>Olivia shrugged. <em>Classic</em> Gautier move. Withhold the truth to get what you want, because people would worry and give you want.</p><p>Ingrid sighed.</p><p>“Footwork is most important,” she said, striding out into the centre of the garden. She chose a spot and planted her feet in the first position her lance instructor had taught her, when she was seven-years-old. Two years younger than Olivia was. “Before I even hand you a weapon, I have to know that you won’t topple under its weight. Copy me.”</p><p>With a dazzling grin, Olivia scurried to stand beside Ingrid. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully as she mimicked the placement of Ingrid’s feet. Then she straightened and grinned once again.</p><p>Ingrid sighed once again.</p><p>As they moved through the exercises, Ingrid watched Olivia carefully, giving instructions when needed. Which, unexpectedly, was often for errors a more advanced student would make. The girl was always a beat behind, but her movements were certain and graceful. Her adjustments when she realised she’d made a mistake, certain. Even if Sylvain hadn’t taught her himself, there was no question that Olivia had observed a lot of combat. Probably by sneaking into the training grounds when the soldiers were training.</p><p>Ingrid’s stomach twisted. She remembered doing the same thing.</p><p>Stepping out of her stance, she lay her lance in the grass.</p><p>“Here,” she said, dropping to one knee in front of Olivia. “May I?”</p><p>Olivia nodded. Ingrid took hold of one of her ankles and gently moved it into the correct position.</p><p>“Balance is very important when fighting with a spear or lance,” she explained. “If you don’t account for the weight of the weapon or the force of the thrust, you will fall over. I saw His Majesty misjudge enough times when we were growing up to know how important it is.”</p><p>“His Majesty fell over?” Olivia gasped.</p><p>Ingrid chuckled. She remembered the feeling of awe she had for King Lambert when she was a child. It was strange to think of Dimitri, gentle giant and foolish idiot that he was, as he might appear to a child not his own. She rested her arms on her raised knee and looked up at Olivia.</p><p>“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said. “His Majesty is the clumsiest person I have ever known. When he was your age, he snapped a stirrup on your father’s saddle while adjusting it.”</p><p>Olivia’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “But they’re made of leather!”</p><p>Ingrid nodded. “His Majesty possesses the unique ability to destroy almost anything.”</p><p>Olivia’s mouth hung open for another second before she giggled. Then she looked down at her feet and moved them back to the first position, lifting her arms as though holding a lance.</p><p>“Like this?” she asked.</p><p>Ingrid rose with a nod. “Perfect. Now give me the second.”</p><p>They cycled through the exercises for a half-hour, until Olivia could find every position without looking. Then, Ingrid made her practice lunging forward and drawing back. She lost her balance a few times, but every time she tried again, and again, until she managed the thrusts perfectly.</p><p>At that point, Ingrid noticed the sun sinking. She scooped her lance up off the ground and turned to Olivia, intending to suggest they stop for the day. But as she opened her mouth, the child performed a perfect forward thrust, heaving her imagined lance through the air.</p><p>Ingrid tightened her hands around the shaft of her lance, then tapped Olivia on the shoulder.</p><p>“Here,” she said, offering the weapon.</p><p>Olivia’s eyes widened.</p><p>“Really?” she breathed. “Can I?”</p><p>“The best way to learn is to try,” Ingrid shrugged. “But we’ll leave the guard on it, okay?”</p><p>Despite her obvious excitement, Olivia took the lance with great care. She held it in both hands, staring at it lovingly.</p><p>“How do I hold it properly?” she asked.</p><p>Ingrid put her hands over Olivia’s to adjust them.</p><p>“Here and here. Make sure you keep your thumb tucked in. If it waves about freely while you spar, you’re more likely to injure it.”</p><p>Ingrid guided Olivia’s arms forward in a simple attack as she spoke. Once they’d drawn back, Olivia shrugged her shoulders in a clear message for Ingrid to move away. She obeyed.</p><p>“Like this,” Olivia said, performing the same movement alone. The whole while, she looked over her shoulder at Ingrid, her expression eager and searching for approval.</p><p>Ingrid’s breath caught. She had seen that expression before, a number of years ago. When, of all things, Mercedes had come to her to confess a plan to ask Sylvain to marry her.</p><p>“Why would you come to me?” Ingrid had asked, confused in the face of her friend’s muddled excitement, shyness, hesitation. “It’s nothing to do with me.”</p><p>“You’re his best friend,” Mercedes had said. “I know my own mind, but I confess I feel like I do not always know his. I do not want to cause him distress by misinterpreting his feelings.”</p><p>“Mercie, <em>everyone</em> knows he’s head over heels in love with you!”</p><p>At that, Mercedes had giggled nervously. Two days later, she had dragged Ingrid aside to show off an engagement ring. Sylvain had beaten her to it. They were married only a week later, a few days before Dimitri’s coronation.</p><p>“Lady Ingrid?”</p><p>Ripping herself from painful reminiscence, Ingrid smiled at Olivia and gave her a thumbs-up. Olivia blushed and stood straight, placing the foot of the lance on the ground just as Ingrid had at the start of their session.</p><p>“I’d better go now,” Olivia said. “I don’t want to be late for dinner.”</p><p>“Of course not,” Ingrid replied. “Does your father scold?”</p><p>Olivia rolled her eyes. “Terribly.”</p><p>Ingrid couldn’t stop her laugh at the thought of Sylvain with his hands on his hips, trying to keep a straight face as he spoke sternly. Olivia beamed as she surrendered the lance.</p><p>“Will you teach me again?” she asked.</p><p>Unsure how to refuse her, Ingrid nodded. Olivia waved and darted away. Watching her go, a small seed of affection burst in Ingrid’s chest.</p><p>Then she turned and saw Sylvain leaned against one of the pillars of the colonnade.</p>
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</div><p>“Oh goddess,” she swore, her hand flying to cover her racing heart.</p><p>A smile grew on Sylvain’s face, but not naturally. It was as though he had to force every individual muscle to move until he wore a simulacrum of his usual expression.</p><p>“You’re going to be late for dinner,” he said.</p><p>Ingrid scowled. “What? I…”</p><p>She cut off as she realised that Sylvain had changed clothes. The maroon coat and open shirt were gone. In their place, a trimmed tunic and fur-lined boots, a cape draped over the shoulders, fastened with a chain. The Margrave had returned.</p><p>Ingrid looked down at her dishevelled travel clothes.</p><p>“Oh!” she exclaimed.</p><p>So used to life on the road, she had forgotten the expectations in a margrave’s house. One couldn’t go to dinner wearing any old outfit. Ingrid hefted her lance and took quick steps towards the castle entrance.</p><p>“I’ll go get changed,” she said. “I—”</p><p>“It’s fine.”</p><p>Ingrid halted. “I don’t want to set a bad example for Olivia.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Sylvain insisted. “Honestly, I’ve turned up to dinner in worse.”</p><p>“But…”</p><p>“It’s fine.”</p><p>The words, three times repeated, didn’t make Ingrid feel any better. The spectres of their earlier exchange drifted around her as Sylvain turned his back.</p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.</p><p>“You’re as bad as Olivia, you know that?” he said.</p><p>Ingrid winced. “Oh. Well then, I’ll—”</p><p>“The cemetery.” Sylvain folded his arms over his chest as he faced her. “I’m going to the cemetery.”</p><p>Ingrid blinked, forced to banish her immediate thought. It was nonsense to think he was headed to the cemetery in the castle town so close to dinnertime. It was an hour’s walk away. But that left only one other candidate, one near impossible.</p><p>The Gautier family had been buried in a plot to the east of the castle for generations. It was a marker of pride that they remained in the territory instead of being removed to Fhirdiad, as was the practice among many noble families. Even some members of the Fraldarius family were buried in the graveyard outside the capital. But every single Gautier since the very first had been laid to rest in their own territory, interred into the ground to guard Faerghus’s border for all eternity.</p><p>It was difficult to believe that the Gautier family cemetery was Sylvain’s destination because throughout their teenage and young adult years, he had expressed nothing but unequivocal disgust for his family’s practice. He hated the idea of being trapped in Gautier forever. He had avoided the graveyard at all costs, entering only on days he was required to by ceremony.</p><p>But that was then. Of course things were different, ten years on. The cemetery now laid claim to the rawest part of Sylvain, the deepest pain imaginable.</p><p>“May I come with you?” Ingrid asked softly.</p><p>An expression somewhat like relief washed across his face. He nodded.</p><p>The gate squeaked on its hinges as Sylvain pushed it open. Before following him into the cemetery, Ingrid leaned her lance against the fence, unwilling to carry it into such a solemn place. By the time she looked up from her task, Sylvain was standing in front of the newest gravestone, in the far corner of the cemetery. Ingrid knew what she would engraved upon it when she joined him.</p><p>Mercedes von Martritz Gautier. Lone Moon 18, 1189.</p><p>Ingrid had no memory of that particular day, though she had an account from Felix. He had ridden into the territory the moment he received word of Mercedes’s illness and waited in the antechamber for the two days prior, offering support by his presence while Sylvain perched on a chair in the corner, pale from lack of sleep, hands folded together and pressed against his forehead. When it had actually happened, early in the morning of the eighteenth, Felix had been in the breakfast room. But he had heard the scream and dropped his plate, letting it shatter on the floor as he bolted up the stairs. He had seen Sylvain on the bed, Mercedes still, unmoving, in his arms.</p><p>That was where Felix’s report had ended, as his voice caught and he looked away to seek Lysithea’s hand.</p><p>Ingrid’s own recollection was of three days after the date marked on the gravestone. She had been expecting a visit from Baron Gideon’s third son and so answered the door in a red gown that cinched her waist and cascaded down to the floor in yards and yards of fabric. She remembered the dress particularly because after reading the messenger’s note, she’d sprinted back into the castle, ripping open the buttons down her front as she ascended the stairs. She’d burst into her father’s office, underdress exposed, to inform him that she was leaving immediately for Gautier. His curt and resigned nod upon hearing the news had set her back into motion, her heart beating at the speed of a peregrine in flight as in her room she pulled on her leggings, tugged her tunic over her head, the red dress discarded on the floor. Within a half-hour Ismaire was saddled and they took to the sky.</p><p>Felix had greeted her in the gardens of Gautier castle. She’d noticed the dark marks under his eyes as he caught Ismaire’s reins, steadying her while Ingrid dismounted.</p><p>“How is he?” Ingrid had asked.</p><p>“Don’t expect too much,” Felix had replied.</p><p>But before they could even lead Ismarie to the stable, Sylvain had appeared, striding across the garden to throw his arms around Ingrid and squeeze her tight.</p><p>“Ing, I…”</p><p>The sound of a child crying had ripped him from her again just as quickly. He had bolted back towards the castle, where his mother stood at the entrance with a bawling toddler in her arms.</p><p>Ingrid stopped beside Sylvain and looked down at the bold letters carved into the gravestone before them, a shiver travelling up her spine. She wished she possessed no memory of that time at all. She wished it had never happened.</p><p>“I’ll be buried with her, you know,” Sylvain said.</p><p>Ingrid clasped her hands together to disguise their tremor. The thought of Sylvain gone was pure agony. For all that they had been adrift for the past six years, he was a part of her. Like Felix, like Dimitri. Like Ashe and Dedue and Annette. She couldn’t imagine the world without him.</p><p>But she hadn’t been able to imagine the world without Mercedes either.</p><p>Sylvain crouched down and rested his palm over the empty space above Mercedes’s name.</p><p>“This is where it’ll go,” he said. “My name. Sylvain Jose Gautier, along with the date I die.”</p><p>Ingrid swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat.</p><p>“I hope you don’t intend for that to be any time soon,” she said.</p><p>Sylvain chuckled and shook his head. “I’ve got a daughter to raise. I can’t go until she’s capable of taking care of herself and leading the margravate. She’s got no one else, see.”</p><p>He traced the indent of Mercedes’s name in the stone.</p><p>“It shouldn’t have been this way,” he added, voice growing thick. “Mercedes was supposed to see Olivia grow up. She deserved her more than I do.”</p><p>Ingrid clenched her fist. She wanted to comfort him, but wasn’t sure he would welcome her touch. They weren’t children anymore.</p><p>“She has her eyes,” she said instead, as a compromise.</p><p>Sylvain flinched. It slid into Ingrid’s heart like a knife, making her wish she could take the words back. Why was she so bad at dealing with grief, whether her own or others’?</p><p>“Yes.” Sylvain’s voice was controlled as he pushed himself up. “She does. Her mind as well. Olivia’s smart, and she’s bored. There isn’t much in Gautier for a child her age. I should know.”</p><p>“Is that why you’re bringing her with us?”</p><p>“No.” Sylvain rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s coming with us because I made her a promise.”</p><p>“What promise?”</p><p>Sylvain’s eyes slipped closed. He reached out and rested a hand on the top of the gravestone, then faced Ingrid.</p><p>“Just a promise,” he said.</p><p>Ingrid bit her lip. It was as bad as she had feared back in the town, sitting on the fountain with her ill-fated meat pie.</p><p>“Listen, Ingrid,” Sylvain said, pressing on, as usual oblivious to the hurt he had caused, “can we not do this? We set out tomorrow. It’s a long journey and I’d rather make it with a friend. Not…” He glanced away. “…I mean, I want to go with General Ingrid. Not Student Ingrid. Let’s pick up where we left off after the war, not before, okay?”</p><p>Ingrid lifted the corners of her lips.</p><p>“Of course,” she said, smoothing all quivers from her voice. “Friends. We should hurry to dinner. Everyone’s probably waiting.”</p><p>She hurried out of the cemetery, retrieving her lance as she went through the gate, stopping herself from looking back to see if Sylvain followed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title of this fic comes from William Shakespeare's quote, “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”</p><p>Unfortunately due to personal commitments, I won't be able to finish posting this within the official posting period for the Big Bang. But it will be posted, and to draw you back I can promise another amazing piece from Rinoa!</p><p>I'd like to give a shout-out to all the lovely people involved in the Sylvgrid Big Bang, especially the mods! You've all been great to work with.</p><p>And very special thanks to two people in particular: Rinoa, who inspired me with her gorgeous drawing of Olivia and has been endlessly patient with my hopeless schedule, and emiwaka29, my brilliant, always-encouraging beta, as well as a fantastic Sylvgrid writer.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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